Goodbye, My Valkyrie

Another morning of

trying to force this

failing body from

this warm futon

to carry on the

life struggles known

to peasantry. On

mornings like this,

I used to visualize

a woman standing

above me, a luminescent,

fair creature, an angel,

a warrior princess,

a valkyrie, holding

out her dove-white

but strong hand,

ready to clasp mine

and pull me up and

into the fray common

to those who never

won life’s lottery; but

just like the so-called

“real” women of flesh-

and-bowels, who cavort

their way through life’s

deadly pageantry, I finally

gave her up too this morning,

because she was never

really there anyway, you

see, just like the “real” ones,

a few of whom were

present, sure, for a

time, at least in body,

while the gravy was

good; but they never

stayed through the thin

gruel days. So where does

an imaginary warrior-

maiden and soul-mate

Sail after a man has finally

said goodbye?

Does she head over

to comfort the worst

of men: the braggarts,

the blockheads, the

mindless materialists,

the drug dealers, the

pimps and puppy abusers?

Are these the ones that

imaginary valkyries fly

towards to pull up from

their beds and futons to face

life’s hard realities? I wouldn’t

be surprised if that’s true;

after all, what did the so-called

real women do, most often,

with their priceless, life-giving

eyes, and thighs, and lips, and

all the rest, but gift them to the

most worthless and least grateful

of men? Therefore, following more

than half-a-century of scribbling 

love notes and poetry and even

sometimes song mixed

with sincerity of longing, and not

looking half-bad at all, according

to more than a few, I finally gave

up on those real women of lovely

flesh but thin blood; and this

morning, I even said my final

Farewell to my angel of light, my

valkyrie, my princess of the

mind. This may be poetry, or it

may be self-pity; but it

also happens to be the undiluted,

undeluded reality of my life, and

the lives of many others too. So fly

away fly on, and keep flying, my

valkyrie, because you

were never really there above my

bed. Spread those wings 

And soar into some gods-

forsaken eternity, and

I’ll stay under these covers just a

little while more. 

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

 

Delusion Juice

Delusions

Delusions

Everywhere

So many heads

Just swimming

With them. Hey

Look, I’m friends

With a thousand

Malaysian Beauty

Queens, and they’re

All 18. And Lookie

Here, my impromptu

Poem got 9 likes, and

I wrote it on the clock

At work. The boss is

Such a jerk. And don’t

forget to Thumbs-up the

vid of my old 80s rock

band too because we

would have made it

for Sure if our singer

Hadn’t been such

A flake. Delusions

Of grandeur and

Goodness too in

The vast Buddhaverse

Of virtue-signalling

Bodhisatvas and

That blue Hindu

God and his consort

Too: Look how hip

your Views are, loving

Me so much that

You don’t think I

Should have a

Gun in a world like

This….And then

There’s the

Smarmy fool

Who discounts

Appalling realities

As “conspiracy

theories” bc he

Doesn’t know

That phrase was

Concocted by

A certain intelligence

Agency to throw us

Of the trail of Who

Did JFK. Delusions

Delusions like

Politics and

Religions whose

Perpetrators are

All in the pockets

Of the same pay-

Masters. But I know,

I know, reality is just

Too much for us to

Take down straight,

So mix our drinks

With that sweet

Delusion-juice,

Bartender,

And thank you very

Much.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

What OJ’s Pardon Means for Us

Nietzsche once wrote that man is the unhappy animal. I say that man is the delusional animal. It’s horribly simple: during evolution we developed  consciousness, and this heightened awareness told our ancestors that one day they would die. It also told us them lots of other things they wished were not true. (For a catalog of some of those harsh truths, listen to any Muddy Water’s CD). Today most people still believe in either a “just God” or some kind of cosmic karma; in other words, most still think that in the end the good guys will win and the really bad guys will go to hell. I’m not saying that both of those concepts are definitely delusions, but they just might be.

Even to the jaded and cynical among us, it was a shock to see OJ cleared of murder late in the 20th Century, despite the avalanche of evidence presented against him at his trial. We’d always harbored the suspicion, or for some of us, the near-certainty, that justice in this universe is as random as everything else seems to be. And of course, if justice is faithless or fickle, it’s not really justice. But here was the hard evidence that our belief in justice is a delusion: a jury, in the supposedly best criminal just-us system in the world, set OJ free, while the friends and family of his victims. along with most of us, looked on with horror.

As a kid I had a poster of OJ on my wall. I had nothing against him. But it seemed to me–and any other sane adult–that beyond a shadow of a doubt, he had committed double murder–not against some evil beings or cartoon villains, but against a woman who’d married him and her innocent young friend. To see OJ smiling, his supporters dancing and cheering in the streets, the hot blondes who continued to date him after his release, etc., was just more frosting on that cancerous cake. To know in the back of your mind that life is wildly unfair is one thing; to see proof on the magic TV that there is no justice, even for the most wicked, is another.

Well, you could argue that OJ did end up receiving some justice, even if it was for a ludicrous, Three Stooges-style robbery. And for a time there it seemed that at least OJ might rot and die in his luxury prison. It wouldn’t have been as satisfying as seeing him crushed to death and then tossed into a bog or fed to wild pigs, but at least it would have given the friends and family of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman some sense of inner peace to know that he’s off the streets. And it would have left the rest of us some room to hope that justice is real after all.

But instead, now we’ll have to watch as OJ dates hot blondes, smiles for the camera, makes money being a buffoon, etc. And we’ll at some point have to look at the pained expressions of at least some of the friends and family of Ron and Nicole, whose only crime was to be born in a world like this.

 

Pissing on the Old Man’s Grave

sounds extreme and distasteful too

but you didn’t know the old man.

He had an uncanny knack for deceiving

himself a he pursued his own

comfort and pleasure

to the detriment of every

living being he came into

contact with, especially those

he spawned himself, like when

he’d fart aloud proudly in his

old Nash Rambler, but then

after my little brother laughed

and did the same, “dad” reddened,

pulled the car over, and gravely

threatened to stuff Lil’ Mike into the

trunk, until his tiny lips quivered and

he bawled his eyes out and threw up

all over himself, while I sat stoner-faced

and wondered why guys like dad

were ever born and allowed to breed.

Then I became an atheist. But years later,

now an adult, I guilted myself into visiting

dad in his Taj Mahal McMansion off the lake.

We’d sit and he’d talk about politics and religion,

then to bolster his beliefs, he’d always lift a yellow

book up to my face and exhort me to read about the

healing miracles performed by the Virgin Mary at

Fatima or Majigoria, I can’t remember which,

while his latest drug-addled hooker scampered

past us and out the front door, and my now-crippled

brother sat in a wheelchair in a tiny apartment

with my mother. So on one such occasion, I asked

“dad” why he didn’t sell some of his gold coins

or Pre-Colombian vases and take Mike to Majigoria

or Fatima for a healing, and then I’d believe.

Dad blinked, turned purple, then after a long pause,

and with a straight face, he said that Mike was only

faking and could really walk but simply sat in a

wheelchair or crawled on his hands and knees

because he was lazy and liked to be waited on

by mom. But when I mentioned the accident, the

hospital, doctors, and disability check, dad simply

got up and stomped back to his bedroom.

And I sat there wondering why it’s not legal

to kill a creature like him. But sadly, it was already

the age of DNA evidence and CSI, so I quietly decided

that since it seemed to me that neither God nor Karma

could really exist, I’d have to piss on “dad’s” grave

one day, and if somehow the gassy ghost of his former

self rose up and haunted me after, I’d just stare at it

and state with a straight face that what I’d just sprayed

on his grave wasn’t piss at all–just lemonade.